


The Second Kiss

by azriona



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Kissing, Little bit of angst, M/M, and victor should probably work on kissing him more often, episode 7 cup of china kiss, not very much, yuuri worries about things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 21:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8912449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: Yuuri knew Victor would kiss him at some point in time. He just didn't really think about it.Now that they've had their first kiss, though - he can't stop thinking about the second.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to drinkingcocoa, justgot1, and xxsilverrose22xx for betaing with 2x4s, and to auntbabe for helping me find the quotes from the show. You guys rock.

 

Yuuri doesn’t think about his first kiss with Victor.

It’s not as though he doesn’t know it’s coming. _Of course_ Victor would kiss him one day. If Yuuri is completely honest with himself, he’ll admit that Victor’s been leading up to it since the very first day, when Victor stood up in the hot springs, naked and reaching out for him.

Just _remembering_ that moment turns Yuuri’s knees into jelly, makes his eyes lose focus, makes his cheeks flame up with the giggles that bubble up from his stomach.

Most of Hasetsu thinks they’ve kissed already. Yuuko can’t even look at them without stars in her eyes. Yuuri’s mother tells him in confidence how sweet it is that Victor goes back to his own room every morning to mess up his bed, just for the sake of appearances. Yuuri doesn’t tell her that Victor sleeps in his own bed every night. She wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Yuuri doesn’t think about where their first kiss will take place, or how, or when, or why. He’s too busy thinking about quads versus triples, axels and loops, right foot left foot arm extension. He dreams to the soundtracks of his programs, counts out the beats and steps and elements when he runs up the steps leading to the castle. The music begins – and everything else falls away. It’s just him, and the ice, and the sheer effort of committing his program to muscle memory.

When Yuuri practices – and he is always practicing, even when his body is sleeping or bathing or eating or helping his mother clear the common room when the guests are eating bowls of rice and pork and beef – the music is always beginning. Day by day, he practices until every gesture is automatic.

After ten years of competition, Yuuri’s muscles are well-used to memorizing skating programs.

But a kiss? It’ll happen, regardless, and there’s no memory on which to draw. It’s unchartered territory. Music, before the choreography. And thus, easier to ignore.

He can’t ignore it all of the time. Yuuri lets himself imagine the kiss when Victor stands a little _too_ close and Yuuri can’t possibly forget, or in the dark of his room before he lets sleep claim him, with full knowledge that Victor is just down the hall, so easily accessible.

It’s just that of all the places their first kiss _could_ happen, the _last_ place Yuuri anticipates the kiss occurring is on the ice at the Cup of China when he’s just skated the program of his life, and the _entire damn world_ is watching.

 _“I wanted to surprise you more than you surprised me. This was the only thing I could think of_.”

On the ice, everything moves so quickly. One moment, Yuuri sees Victor, arms stretched out, his face inscrutable. The next, he’s lying on his back, sweat-soaked costume and all. He’s not cold. He’s still overheated from his program, and Victor is warm and dry, pressing into him from above. Victor’s chest rises and falls as he breathes almost as hard as Yuuri. They only have enough time for words that Yuuri can barely remember. Enough time for Yuuri to recognize the warm weight of Victor lying atop him in a hotel room that afternoon in an effort to get Yuuri to sleep.

As if Yuuri could have _slept_ with Victor in the same bed. Victor isn’t only stupid for being an inexperienced coach.

_“Really? It worked.”_

The cheers sound like the ocean, crashing around them, the occasional call of a gull breaking the distant cacophony. Or maybe it’s the hooting of a spectator who sounds suspiciously like Minako.

“Mr. Nikiforov! Mr. Katsuki!”

Victor is still looking at him, still cradling the back of Yuuri’s head in his hand. He hasn’t looked away or broken his smile. It’s just the two of them on the ice, warming each other, but Yuuri can already feel the protective bubble shimmer and shake, about to burst into a thousand colorful shards.

_Victor is going to kiss me again._

A small kiss, sweet, more a promise than anything else, to seal the moment before it shatters. Yuuri can taste it already. Fleeting – it will have to be, there’s no time for anything else – but this time, he’s going to be ready for it.

Victor pushes himself up to his feet. He’s still wearing the smile, and he somehow manages to keep a hand on Yuuri. Yuuri sits up reluctantly. He can hear the audience more distinctly now – there’s applause and shouts: _Davai! Kiss! Yuuri! Victor!_ He’s not sure he’s ever heard them quite so loud in his life.

It’s deafening. Victor isn’t talking, which is just as well – Yuuri’s not sure he’d hear it. Yuuri’s skates slide on the ice as Victor pulls him close.

 _Now_. He’ll kiss him _now_ , when they’re upright. The moment’s not quite gone. Yuuri can barely breathe, waiting for the touch of Victor’s lips to his.

“Let’s go see how you did,” Victor says cheerfully. His breath tickles Yuuri’s ear.

The moment is gone when they step off the ice. There are cameras and people and flowers and tissues and stuffed animals to squeeze. Yuuri’s only dimly aware of the reporters arguing with officials, gesticulating wildly and annoyance in their faces – but Victor doesn’t stop walking, his arm crooked in Yuuri’s, until they reach the kiss-and-cry. The crowd is still shouting, still chanting their names and various other things in languages Yuuri’s sure he ought to understand, but his head is buzzing, and it’s easier to let the undecipherable noise wash over him.

It’s not until they’re in the relative quiet of the kiss-and-cry that Victor’s voice cuts through the din. “Yes, thank you,” he says, and Yuuri’s back straightens as he sucks in a breath – but Victor’s not talking to him. He’s accepting something – another bouquet of flowers, maybe, Yuuri doesn’t know. He takes whatever it is – soft plush under his fingers – and hugs it to his body with one hand. The other is still tight, fingers laced with Victor’s.

Yuuri breathes. Victor’s still there. The second kiss is still coming. Victor’s waiting, that’s all. For the right moment. For privacy? For something. Following Victor has never steered Yuuri wrong before. He can wait.

_For me to win gold?_

No. Yuuri can’t even begin to think that, even if that’s what’s been the goal all along.

“Now announcing the scores for Katsuki Yuuri…”

Another roar from the crowd as the scores are posted.

Victor lets go of Yuuri’s hand in a blistering moment before he throws his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders and hugs him tightly from the side.

Yuuri still breathes hard, staring at the screen and not comprehending anything.

“Second,” breathes Victor – shouts Victor – says Victor, elated. It’s not quite what Yuuri wants to hear. “Second!”

_He won’t go back to Russia. I can keep him now._

“Silver, to match your hair,” says Yuuri, and there’s a pause before Victor laughs.

*

They’re not alone, that’s the problem.

Every camera and every eye in the world is on them in the kiss-and-cry. Yuuri mingles with the other skaters as they wait for the podium to be assembled and the award ceremony to begin. Victor is so close that Yuuri can feel the heat from his skin even if they’re not touching. Everyone makes a point of coming to them, congratulations and handshakes and loud laughter while they glance around, as if to make a point of showing how happy they are for Yuuri. It’s not until Phichit hugs him that Yuuri can let himself relax a little into the familiar circle of his friend’s arms.

“I knew you had it in you,” says Phichit, delighted and ecstatic. Yuuri grins, a bit self-conscious as Phichit lets him go.

“ _Something_ in him, certainly,” says a smooth, sultry voice – and then Yuuri finds himself engulfed in a hug from Christophe, which goes just a bit too long. It takes a pointed cough from Victor before Christophe lets go, with a side comment to Victor. “You aren’t _surprised_ , are you?”

“Yes,” says Yuuri, which just makes Christophe laugh in that way that usually makes Minako groan and reach for another bottle of wine.

“Go get your silver,” says Victor, smiling, which is the only reason Yuuri realizes the award ceremony is about to begin. He reaches and brushes back a lock of stiff hair behind Yuuri’s ear. “Try not to trip when you step up on the podium, okay?”

“Yeah,” laughs Yuuri, a little shaky. Victor’s fingers linger in Yuuri’s hair, just behind his ear.

_One small tug on Yuuri’s hair – one light press of fingers to the back of his neck, and Yuuri finds himself against Victor’s chest. It’s a soft kiss, private despite the scrum of skaters and coaches and officials, and Yuuri’s head swirls and sways as he tries to find center._

“Victor!” calls out Celestino from across the room, and then Phichit’s shoving Yuuri toward the ice again. The moment is gone before it even starts.

He looks for Minako from the podium. He sees her, shouting and waving her arms and her sign and bouncing around like a demented rabbit. He can’t remember seeing her so enthusiastically happy, and when everyone near her shies away like she’s contracted rabies, he can’t help but laugh.

He’s still riding on the elated high as they walk off the ice. He doesn’t even realize he’s walked into the press conference until he’s sitting down.

There’s a moment, when the flashbulbs burst in Yuuri’s eyes, as the technicians adjust microphones and lights, ensure that nameplates are in the proper order, that the quiet murmur of voices from the press sitting in front of them is soft and reassuring as every other time Yuuri has sat at a table and waited to answer questions he knows are coming.

Somewhere, beyond the flashbulbs, Victor’s waiting. The thought fills Yuuri with bubbles. His blood might be carbonated for the tingles that course through him.

The questions shouldn’t shock him. They do.

“How long have you and Victor Nikiforov been dating?”

“I—" Yuuri stammers.

“Did you start seeing each other romantically before or after last year’s Grand Prix?”

“I… what?”

“Do you credit your career revival to Victor’s coaching, or your relationship with him?”

“Um… I don’t….”

“Is he charging his normal coaching fees considering your relationship?”

 _What normal coaching fee? He’s never coached before!_ wonders Yuuri, but the words don’t come out. Nothing comes out.

“Is this meant to be a political statement on your respective nations’ policies towards homosexual individuals?”

“Is this why you wore his costume in your short program?”

“No, I just liked it,” says Yuuri, mind still reeling.

“Are you planning to get married?”

 _Oh my God_.

“I…. don’t… _ASK VICTOR_ ,” squeaks Yuuri. He can feel the wildness in his eyes before he hears shuffling to the side of the table.

“So very sorry,” says Victor brightly, and Yuuri is shaking so hard he can’t even tear his gaze away from the reporters in front of him. “That’s all for now, Yuuri’s needed elsewhere. ISF regulations, time to pee in a cup! Come on, Yuuri, you’ve been drinking that water like I told you to, _da_?”

“Uh-huh,” says Yuuri, completely blind, and he thinks he can hear a reporter shouting a last ridiculous question-- _“Yuuri, does Victor boss you around in the bedroom too?”_ \--as he leaves the bright lights behind them.

There’s an official in the hallway when Victor bursts through the doors, already spouting apologies. Victor runs her right over.

“Completely unprofessional, I don’t care what they consider news,” says Victor angrily, hand tight in Yuuri’s, pulling him along the corridor. He launches into a stream of Russian that Yuuri probably wouldn’t be able to follow if he’d been learning the language for the last ten years, but he imagines he has the gist of it considering how chastised the ISF official walking beside them looks.

They’re at the locker room door when Victor stops and turns to Yuuri. His eyes are still blazing a little bit, and Yuuri’s stomach gives a violent twist.

And then he sees what Victor is still holding.

“What _is_ that?” he asks, pointing at the rather large plush in Victor’s hands.

Victor gives him a quizzical look. “I think it’s a plush katsudon. You were holding it in the kiss-and-cry.”

Yuuri begins to giggle. “A plush… _katsudon_?”

Victor shrugs, his grin wry. “See, here’s the egg. And I think these green flecks are spring onions. And look at the stitching on the rice….”

“But how did--?”

Victor shrugs. “I’m not the only one watching you, _svinichka_. One of your fans threw it on the ice after your program. You don’t remember?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “It’s all a blur.”

Victor’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Go change, _svinichka_ , I’ll meet you here,” says Victor.

The world stops.

 _Now_ , thinks Yuuri. _This is how the second kiss will go._

_It starts as a quiet press of lips to Yuuri’s, with Victor’s hands in the stiff strands of Yuuri’s hair. Yuuri still clutches the medal around his neck because it might disappear the moment he lets go. The kiss is full of reassurance and promise: a romantic, intangible thing that leaves an ache that Yuuri doesn’t recognize._

But all Victor does is squeeze Yuuri’s hand, before turning and heading down the corridor again.

*

It’s quieter now in the corner of the massive locker room beneath the ice. Voices echo off the tile as other skaters change out of their costumes, but they aren’t as jarring as before. Victor is somewhere else, no doubt talking to (berating?) the press, bragging to Celestino, signing his own autographs, posing for his own photos, preening and proud.

Yuuri sits for a moment, his hands resting on his knees, and listens to the rest of the skaters. He’s used to ignoring them – used to them ignoring _him_ , and their quick familiarity during this competition is a bit unnerving. Not unwelcome exactly – well, except for Christophe’s never-ending hug – but not expected. For now, they’re letting him be. He’s not alone, but it’s as close as he’s likely to be until he’s back in his hotel room….

With Victor.

Yuuri closes his eyes and breathes in and out, measuring each breath as the adrenaline fades. Usually after a competition, there’s a sense of relief that it’s over, even if the relief is coupled with disappointment. Yuuri feels the relief, yes – but the feeling of anticipation isn’t one he’s felt _after_ a competition before.

 _I was never kissed coming off the ice before, either_.

Yuuri begins to stretch out the sore muscles in his legs, flexing his feet, paying attention to every muscle and taking note of which ones are the most in need of attention. Every muscle aches now, but it’s a good ache. It’s a gentle reminder of what’s he’s accomplished.

_Second. I placed second. One step closer to the Grand Prix._

If it hadn’t been for the kiss, Yuuri wouldn’t mind the soreness of his muscles at all – but now, combined with his familiar anxiety, there’s a good chance he’ll end the night being sick to his stomach. It feels a little like he’s standing on a very tall bridge, swaying in the wind, miles above the water. He’s certain the cables will snap; he’s uncertain what will happen when they do.

The innocent, unquestioning dependability of the first kiss, easily ignored, morphs into something else. Victor will kiss Yuuri again, no doubt.

Yuuri doesn’t have muscle memory for this. He’s at center ice, conveniently located atop that swaying bridge, waiting for the music to begin with no idea when it will start, or how it will sound, or what he’s meant to do.

_You tend to flub your jumps when something on your mind._

Yuuri exhales, rolls his neck, spreads his shoulders to stretch out his back. If he could _just - stop - thinking._ He leans over to touch his toes and feels the blood slowly sink into his head.

_This is how the second kiss will go._

_“There you are,” says Victor softly, stepping up behind him. He rests his hands on Yuuri’s back, pressing down lightly into Yuuri’s stretch. Yuuri feels heavy and slow, focused entirely on the feel of Victor’s hands, the weight of them. When Victor pulls his hands away, Yuuri rises, keeping the contact between them. “I’ve been looking for you,” breathes Victor into Yuuri’s ear, cradling him from behind, his arms wrapping around Yuuri, hands on Yuuri’s wrists. Yuuri turns his head to the side, the better to receive the kiss he’s been wanting…._

Someone slams their locker door shut; Yuuri’s eyes fly open.

Victor isn’t there.

Yuuri exhales, and slowly sits back up. The pressure eases from his eyes as his body rights itself. His breaths are a little bit tighter now. His heart pounds, and it could be anything. Excitement. The rush of blood in his head. Anticipation. Nerves.

He shrugs on his jacket, pulls the lanyard with his credentials over his head, and grabs his duffel bag, ready to face the world and pretend like he can stand next to Victor Nikiforov without turning himself into a love-sick teenager _or_ an anxiety-ridden bundle of knots.

*

The hotel is in walking distance of the venue, and they’re surrounded by people when they leave. Yuuri isn’t sure how that happened. As soon as Yuuri stepped into the hall outside the waiting rooms to see Victor break into a smile, they were surrounded by other skaters, all laughing and boisterous and extremely determined to keep Yuuri and Victor company. Yuuri isn’t sure that the group won’t follow them onto the plane back to Japan the next day.

Christophe is laughing and boastful as he talks to Victor, who laughs and answers him. Guang-Hong is quiet, glancing at them with curious, confused eyes. Phichit, still riding high on his win, happily takes selfies with everyone. Minako comes forward to touch Yuuri’s shoulder multiple times, so lightly that he only feels it after she flits away again. There are others that Yuuri can name, but he can’t quite place in the strange haze he’s in.

Victor had taken Yuuri’s hand before they’d even left the venue; he still holds tightly to him. If they were alone… if the rest of the gang had just stayed back or gone ahead or weren’t determined to circle Yuuri and Victor like over-protective lions defending their cubs… if there’d been more than a few seconds before they’d descended in the hallway, enough time to get the second kiss _over_ with already….

Yuuri tries to imagine it, and fails. A kiss in the hallway outside the locker room, with the media lurking around every corner, not to mention Phichit with his ever-present cell phone?

No.

Clumsy and self-aware, noses bumping and fumbling against each other?

No.

Awkward and embarrassed, already regretting having kissed on international television, making split-moment declarations they can’t take back?

Each option is worse than before.

But at least then they’d have moved on. They’d be on the next stage of their relationship. Even if it’s no relationship at all. Even if Yuuri isn’t sure whether _after_ the second kiss is better or worse than _before_ it.

Yuuri hates and loves their companions in equal measures just then.

Beijing is too bright. Yuuri can’t focus on anything – bright yellow and red balls of light, the headlights of the passing cars, square windows of shops and restaurants shining blue and purple and green as they pass by. The sidewalks teem with people and music, and halfway to the hotel, they pass a party where people are dancing to a drummed rhythm. A little old lady shakes her fan at Leo, and the group jostles him until he joins in, pulling a few others, and then they’re all moving in time with the music.

 _Now_ , thinks Yuuri, when he’s dizzy with spinning. The music is too loud and he’s not sure where Victor is, and how much space does Phichit _have_ on his phone anyway, hasn’t he taken a thousand selfies of the night by now? Yuuri stands in the center of it all, laughing because the little old lady who pulled them in is flirting with Christophe, who is flirting right back. Yuuri’s insides are twisted with nerves and he’s probably giddy from winning second, and right _now_ is when Victor should step up and kiss him, when no one is looking.

_This is how the second kiss will go:_

_The tips of Victor’s fingers, soft on Yuuri’s chin, tip his face up. Victor’s eyes are half closed, but Yuuri keeps his eyes wide open, hungry to remember every moment of this kiss, hoping it’s one he’ll want to relive again and again. He can see Victor smile, just before their lips meet. Victor knows why Yuuri won’t close his eyes._

_When Victor’s eyes slide shut, it’s a promise. “I don’t need to remember. I’ll have you to kiss again, just like this, afterwards.”_

The drumming ends, the sudden silence wrenching Yuuri out of his daydream. The little old lady gives Christophe a kiss right on the lips, and Christophe covers his heart with his hands and pretends to faint. Victor applauds next to Yuuri, laughing with delight. Yuuri laughs along with the rest of them, but inside, his heart hurts.

He is so, so tired.

The hotel isn’t much further, and one by one they peel away. Guang-Hong, silent and contemplative. Leo, the resigned sadness lifted a bit by the company and the music. The others, nameless, until all that’s left as they stand in the elevator bay is Christophe, Phichit, and Minako, who quivers as she looks at Christophe hungrily. Christophe doesn’t even notice her as he trades stories with Victor. The two of them are in a world of their own, even if Victor still holds Yuuri’s hand. One story rolls into the next. Do-you-remember-whens, non-sequitors that make no sense, memories from the past ten years of friendly rivalry. The fan who found her way into Christophe’s hotel room; the day that Victor texted Christophe a minute-to-minute account of cutting his hair.

Yuuri pretends not to watch them, pretends to listen to Phichit’s animated chatter, pretends that he doesn’t want to drag Victor away from Christophe, who has more Eros in his small finger than Yuuri will ever display in his entire lifetime, and seems to remind Victor of every drop.

Victor… smiles and laughs, and continues the stroll down memory lane.

What does Yuuri share with Victor? A refused photo, a few months training, a costume, a kiss on the ice.

_I’m the one who he kissed today. Me. Me me me me me…._

“We’ll be them when we’re old and grey,” says Phichit cheerfully, interrupting Yuuri’s increasingly desperate thoughts. He throws his arm over Yuuri’s shoulders as he pulls out his cell phone. “One more selfie, before we go up.”

“You didn’t have to walk us back,” says Yuuri. It sounds much ruder spoken than it did in his head, and Yuuri winces, already prepared for Phichit to pull away, hurt.

He doesn’t. Phichit holds up his cell phone as he leans his head closer to Yuuri’s. “The world’s a rotten place. We weren’t going to let you guys walk alone.”

It takes a moment for Yuuri to process why. The flash on Phichit’s phone reminds him.

“Phichit,” says Yuuri. Phichit doesn’t look up; he’s too busy posting the picture. “I…”

“Finish posting your selfie later, some of us are going to bed,” says Christophe in the lazy, sex-laden way he has. He’s hanging out of the open elevator door. “Alone. Unfortunately.”

“Chris,” groans Victor, pulling Yuuri into the elevator as Yuuri blushes beet red.

“Unless,” continues Christophe, turning his gaze to Minako.

“ _No_ ,” says Yuuri, alarmed, and Minako thumps him on the top of his head as the elevator doors slide closed.

“Hush, you’re still in shock. You have no idea what’s going on,” she tells him. The fact that Minako is partially _right_ is probably lost on everyone but Yuuri.

They reach Yuuri and Victor’s floor first, and it’s only when the elevator doors slide closed behind them that everything goes still and silent.

There’s no more talking, no more music, no more laughter - just the whisper of their steps on the carpeted hallway, the beating of Yuuri’s heart in his ears. Victor’s hand on his is gentle but firm as Victor walks half a step ahead of Yuuri, never once turning around to check that Yuuri follows, focused squarely on the door at the end of the hall.

Leading the way. That’s what Victor _does_ , he leads the way. Everything Yuuri has done or will ever do, Victor has done first. Led a competition, won the Grand Prix, become an international skating icon, forged a second career.

Had a second kiss.

Yuuri’s head spins and he’s barely aware when they finally reach the door to their shared room. He waits while Victor tries to open the door. Everything sways around him, blurs in and out of focus. Victor mutters in Russian under his breath as he swipes the keycard once, twice, with no entry permitted – and finally a green light as the door swings open.

Victor steps inside. Yuuri follows him, caught in his wake. The ocean crashes and foams and grows louder as the door shuts behind them, and they’re in the dark for a moment until Victor slips the keycard into the reader on the wall which turns on the lights in the room which glow a sickly-yellow-bright which shine on their open suitcases and scattered clothes and freshly-made beds waiting for….

Victor turns to Yuuri. His hair covers his eyes, his hand is still on the keycard, like it’s a talisman holding him in place.

He opens his mouth to speak.

All the words Yuuri’s been wanting to hear – all the words he’s been trying to avoid, fill his head so that Yuuri can’t even tell if Victor says anything at all, or just stands, open-mouthed, staring at Yuuri like he’s equally lost and uncertain how they arrived.

 _It was a mistake_.

_Kiss me again._

_We’ll start work on your quad flip tomorrow._

_I have always tried to keep my professional and personal lives separate._

_Your free leg was sloppy, we should ask Minako to come into the rink one day._

_I’ve wanted you since the first day in the onsen._

_You did remember to put the medal in your bag, right?_

Yuuri’s vision blurs.

_No. I… I can’t. No._

Yuuri doesn’t walk – he _flings_ himself into the bathroom, shuts the door and slides against it, down down down until he’s sitting on the tiles, knees tucked up under his chin, fingers pressed to his mouth as he tries to breathe.

_Coward._

_Yes,_ thinks Yuuri, and squeezes his eyes shut.

*

This is how the second kiss will go:

The lights in the room are on. Victor reaches for Yuuri, curls his hand around the back of Yuuri’s neck and pulls him in for the kiss. He kisses the way he skates – with every part of his body moving smoothly toward an unknown, explosive conclusion. Yuuri is helpless, lost, struggling to keep up. It’s too much, too quickly. He’s lost in Victor’s kiss, in Victor’s arms – and in the moment, he doesn’t dare. He lets Victor take the lead, and everything that follows is pure sensation – _pleasure followed by pleasure_. Dimly, Yuuri thinks he will never be able to skate Eros quite the same way again. He’ll always know what it is he’s missing – and Victor will surely know it, too.

No.

This is how the second kiss will go:

The lights in the room are on. Victor reaches for Yuuri, but stops with his hand in midair. For Yuuri, it’s a split second of indecision and second guesses before Victor grows impatient and pulls Yuuri to him. The kiss is gentle, quiet, _slow_ : a press of lips, a sigh, Victor’s hands trailing up and down Yuuri’s arms and back, fingers pressing into his skin and then releasing. Victor’s expecting something, or maybe asking a question Yuuri isn’t sure how to answer. He can already feel Victor’s thoughts moving on, down the hall and up the elevator, heading for another room, where someone with a longer history can meet Victor’s expectations…

No.

This is how the second kiss will go:

The lights in the room are on. Victor reaches for Yuuri, the same loving smile on his lips, the sparkle in his eyes. He takes Yuuri by the hand, pulls him closer until they are flush up against each other, and that’s when Yuuri can feel Victor’s heart pound in his chest. Blue-green eyes drink Yuuri in, gaze skittering across his face. Yuuri can barely breathe, and it’s still not long enough to hold the moment still Victor kisses him, quiet and confident, patient and trusting.

Yuuri leans into the kiss, rises up on his toes. Victor’s lips are cold, his tongue is warm, and Yuuri feels Victor’s smile against his lips. He smiles in return, hands moving from Victor’s coat lapels – not up, but down, under Victor’s coat, sliding against the smooth fabric of his vest, around Victor’s waist to the small of his back. It’s warm there, only a few thin layers of cloth between Yuuri’s fingers and Victor’s skin, and Yuuri is to one to pull Victor close now, only to feel Victor’s smile grow.

They don’t break the kiss – they move with it. Eyes half-lidded and shining, mouths tasting skin, unwilling to let go.

Yes.

Yuuri opens his eyes, sees the bright white of the bathroom surrounding him, and breathes. His skin tingles, but that’s all right. There’s no muscle memory for this – but that’s all right, too. For every surprise Victor has offered him – Yuuri has always managed to surprise himself, too. This second kiss – it’s only another surprise waiting to be sprung.

Yuuri takes a long, shaking breath, and then stands. He stares at the door for a long moment.

It’s silent on the other side. Yuuri leans forward until his forehead touches the door. The ready expectation is slowly melting into sudden doubt. He feels himself shaking, about to break.

“Victor?” he whispers.

Nothing.

Yuuri screws his eyes closed.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why do I always run away when Victor reaches out?_

He uses the toilet, splashes cold water on his face, brushes his teeth. He stares at his red-rimmed eyes in the mirror.

 _Should I kiss you?_ Victor had wondered.

 _No!_ Yuuri had shouted back.

_Never mind. It’s done. I can’t stay in here all night. I might as well go to sleep and try to salvage this in the morning._

Yuuri can’t think that far ahead. He takes a breath and opens the door.

Victor sits on the floor opposite the bathroom door, asleep. One leg is stretched out, the other foot pulled in. His hands are loose in his lap, his head to the side, and his mouth is open just a bit.

Yuuri slowly sinks back down to the floor, hands still on the doorframe.

The light in the room is dimmer than he remembers. The deadbolt has been thrown, and the curtains closed. It’s peaceful with only the faint sound of Beijing’s never-ending traffic on the other side of the window.

_He was waiting for me. He was… right here. Waiting._

Yuuri crawls forward on his hands and knees, careful not to jostle Victor’s legs. Victor’s breaths are soft and even. There’s a bit of drool on the side of his mouth, and Yuuri breaks into a smile.

This is how the second kiss happens.

Yuuri leans in, and kisses Victor’s cheek. Victor’s breath hitches, and so does Yuuri’s heart – but Victor doesn’t move, so Yuuri kisses his other cheek. His skin is rough; it scratches Yuuri’s lips, catches on the chapped bits in sharp pinpricks that Yuuri hadn’t expected but wants to feel again. For a fleeting, giddy moment, Yuuri wonders what color Victor’s beard would come in.

When Yuuri pulls back, Victor’s blue-green eyes stare directly at him, but Yuuri can see the half-awake state. Victor could close his eyes, and slip back into sleep.

Yuuri doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward and kisses Victor’s lips. They open easily, and Victor cups Yuuri’s cheek with one hand. There’s no pressure, and Yuuri thinks that perhaps Victor wants to keep him close, keep him from running again. Victor’s tongue is warm, and tastes a little of the alcohol the coaches must have had during the press conference. Victor’s kiss is soft with sleep, but when Yuuri pulls back, Victor follows him.

“Yuuri.”

“You were waiting for me,” whispers Yuuri.

Victor smiles. It’s the same smile he wears when he forgets that Yuuri is watching him. “For a very long time.”

Yuuri can feel the heat rise to his cheeks; he turns his head into Victor’s palm to kiss it, which has the added benefit of hiding his face from view. “Ten minutes!”

“Ten _months_ ,” says Victor, but before Yuuri can ask what he means, Victor has gently turned Yuuri’s face back to him, and they’re kissing again. The air is soft around them, quiet except for the sound of lips and quiet whimpers, the brush of fabric as they shift against each other.

Small kisses. Long kisses. Mouths open, mouths closed, butterfly kisses on the crease of their lips, deep kisses with barely space to breathe. Yuuri floats along with the kisses, lost in the comfortable sensation of the moment.

The yawn comes out of nowhere, and surprises him as much as it surprises Victor.

“Oh, God,” he groans, as Victor bursts into giggles. Yuuri wants to curl into a ball and die on the spot, but Victor has buried his head into Yuuri’s shoulder to muffle the laughter, and Yuuri doesn’t want to dislodge him. “Victor, I….”

“You _yawned_ ,” giggles Victor, his hands sliding to Yuuri’s elbows. He hangs on tight. “What time is it? _Borzhe moi_ , I’m a terrible coach, you should have been in bed hours ago.”

“I’m awake,” protests Yuuri – and yawns again.

“Oh, so I’m a boring kisser instead?”

Yuuri reels back, horrified. “ _No_!”

Victor pulls himself to his feet, still chuckling. He slides his hands from Yuuri’s elbows to hold his hands. “Come. Bed.”

Yuuri sucks in a breath, and stares at his hands in Victor’s. He doesn’t move a muscle.

“You’re blushing,” says Victor, and he sounds oddly pleased.

“V-v-victor, I… I mean, I don’t… I mean, I _do_ ,” stammers Yuuri.

Victor still smiles that smile. “I think you have to wait for me to ask a very specific question before you say _I do_ ,” he says, and Yuuri groans and covers his face with his hands. “Knowing you’ll agree does take away the pressure, though. Of course, you could ask me instead.”

“That’s not—"

“Sleep, _maya malenkaya svinichka_ ,” says Victor gently, as he pulls Yuuri up to his feet. “Up you go. Listen to your coach.”

Yuuri sways on his feet, but Victor is there to keep him from falling. Exhaustion creeps up on Yuuri; kissing Victor, he’s forgotten about the soreness in his muscles, the lack of sleep from the night before, the emotional toll from the parking lot under the ice.

Coach?

He doesn’t know he’s said it aloud until Victor pulls him close, tucks Yuuri into his arms and brushes his hair back from his face. “Do you want to know what I would say as your lover?”

 _Lover_? Yuuri’s stomach lurches and does not settle, but he’s far from feeling ill.

“Ummmmm….”

“Hmm,” says Victor, and leans in.

This is how the kiss goes.

Heat pools in Yuuri’s center, radiating out down his limbs into fingers and toes. His head spins and sinks, his body shakes as he presses to Victor – and it’s not close enough. Victor’s hands hold him steady – but he can feel the way Victor is shaking, hear the gasp and the desperate bid for air as the kiss deepens, possessive and demanding and still giving Yuuri room to grow his own way into it.

Yuuri keeps his eyes closed when the kiss breaks. Victor’s forehead presses to his; the only sound is their harsh breathing as they hold tight to each other. They might fall otherwise.

Yuuri’s not entirely sure they haven’t already.

“Sleep,” says Victor, and Yuuri can hear the dark tone in his voice, the grasp for sanity. “I’m an old man. You might kill me otherwise.”

“Me? Kill _you_?” scoffs Yuuri.

They undress and slip beneath the covers. Yuuri is too exhausted to feel shy; he doubts Victor has ever felt shy in his entire life. There’s no question or hesitation as they get into the same bed. The light is off now, the room is dark except for a sliver around the edge of the curtains, and the soft orange glow from the keycard station near the door.

Yuuri once thought it’d be uncomfortable, sleeping in the same bed as someone else for the first time.

It isn’t. Or maybe he’s too tired to notice. They face each other, on their sides, hands against each other’s skin.

Victor’s eyes are closed before the blankets have settled around them.

 _Not even a goodnight kiss_ , thinks Yuuri, amused – and that’s when he realizes.

It isn’t that he lost count of the kisses, after the second. It’s that he never started counting at all. In the span of ten minutes, Yuuri’s gone from having been kissed only once… to something else entirely.

He smiles, and sleeps until morning.

 


End file.
